


Deadly Nightshade

by nea9



Category: The Lost World (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:59:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea9/pseuds/nea9
Summary: 'Cause I was filled with poison, but blessed with beauty and rage.Marguerite/Roxton.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters from “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World” are owned by Telescene, NewLine Television, The Over the Hill Gang, Coote/Hayes, etc. No profit is made from this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s note: I have not written a Lost World fanfiction in about fifteen years, but felt inspired by the music of Lana Del Rey and Florence + the Machine. This story reflects my views on what Marguerite’s upbringing and life before the plateau might have been like. I am taking some artistic liberties here. English is not my first language, but I’m trying my best.

_April 10th, 1898_

Marguerite held onto the fleshy hand of Matron as she and fifteen other girls hurried through the old church, finding their seats in the pews in the front.

It was Easter Sunday, and the air smelt of spring flowers and incense. The church was almost full, the warm weather had brought nearly the entire village to mass this morning. The students of Saint Mary's school for girls had to huddle closer together on the hard benches, none of them daring to make a sound under the stern gaze of Matron and the nuns.

Marguerite was itching in her woollen stockings, and already felt irritated at the prospect of another endless sermon by Father Brennan.

At age eleven, she had been enrolled at Saint Mary’s, a charitable convent school, for over six years now. Together with cottagers’ daughters and the children of families that were only slightly better off, she received as good an education as she could hope for.

Father Brennan climbed his pulpit and started chanting the familiar verses Marguerite heard every day of her life, and twice on Sundays. Saint Mary’s provided students with room and board, and in turn required devotion to religious practice.

By now, Marguerite was able to completely drown out the man’s nasal voice. She could have repeated the phrases in her sleep.

In almost perfect synchronicity with the other girls, she knelt down on the hard wooden plank in front of her. In their grey smocks and white aprons, they all were practically indistinguishable, one impoverished child to the next.

But Marguerite knew she was different from the other girls without ever needing to be told. While it was not uncommon for girls at Saint Mary's to lack parents – mothers all seemed to die in childbirth, fathers all seemed away at sea – Marguerite was the only one who could not put a name to at least one family member, living or dead. Nor did she ever receive visitors, or gifts, or had a place to return to during the summer holidays.

And neither the other girls nor the nuns would ever miss an opportunity to let Marguerite forget that.

She could barely remember her old home, the face of the woman who had nursed her, the man that had sent her to attend the convent school.

There had been talk of putting her into an orphanage, in the earliest years of her life, but somehow she had been spared that fate. The convent had taken down Smith for a family name – generic enough to fit an orphaned girl – and had let her stay, as long as the charity would pay for her keep.

She was lucky, that much she knew.

Marguerite shifted slightly on the uncomfortable church pew. Her knees were pounding in time with Father Brennan’s monotone speech rhythm. How long would the sermon drag on? She thought about the bun and the pint of milk that had been promised to each of them, on this feast day, and her belly cramped up.

Church on an empty stomach was the worst kind of punishment.

It wasn’t that Saint Mary’s was a bad place, exactly. She did have food and a roof over her head, was taught arithmetic, and had lessons in French and German. No one wasted breath by chastising her overly much with the rod after she misbehaved or broke yet another one of the convents many rules.

When her teacher, Monsieur Perrault, had become aware of her confusing talent for languages, he had even insisted on giving her lectures in Greek and Latin.

How perplexed he had been when phrases in an ancient language she had no way of knowing simply tumbled out of her mouth! He had advised her to keep her abilities hidden after that.

Saint Mary’s was as good a place as any other, so why did it feel like a prison? Loneliness gnawed away at her, and every day, the convent walls seemed to become a little higher.

The special treatment she received from Monsieur Perrault had not helped her standing with her class mates, and even Matron had voiced concerns about bestowing too much attention on a girl with no family connections and a violent temper – prone to fits of rage, as Matron called it – but the older man had argued that wasting talents such as Marguerite’s would simply be irresponsible.

Besides, a classic education, even if it was only a limited one, could only help to calm the unruly child.

A feather bobbed in the gallery overhead, catching Marguerite's attention.

The feather was perched precariously on the stylish hat of a young girl. Perhaps fourteen years of age, Marguerite guessed. She wore a dress of pale silk.

Unquestionably of upper class origin, the girl was uncommonly pretty. Her skin was milky, her hair a coppery blond. Her face held the expression of a bored angel. No doubt, she would grow up to be the kind of English rose only old money could bring forth.

Marguerite frowned. The world was vastly unjust, she knew that much. While the poor were born to kneel in grey sack linen on hard benches, the rich were born to idleness and silk. It did not matter how many times Father Brennan stressed that the meek would inherit the earth – Marguerite knew the meek inherited bugger all.

Next to the girl up in the gallery sat two young men, one with thick blond strands and a dark-haired one, both several years older than her and looking comfortable in fine suit jackets. A woman behind them fanned herself calmly. She was as fair as the blond boy, and had a warm expression. She seemed to be taking in every word the priest was saying.

Then it dawned on Marguerite. Of course, it was Lady Roxton and her sons! Their family home was nearby in Avebury, and every once in a while, they would attend church in the village.

Lady Roxton had no daughter, Marguerite knew, so she guessed the girl could be a relative, a family friend, or even a future wife for one of the young men…

The dark haired son Marguerite could only see in profile. He seemed younger than his brother – the heir and the spare, she had heard that expression before – and did not resemble his mother very much, though they did seem to share the same calm manner.

Involuntarily, the girl smiled. Despite his youth, he already had broad shoulders and a strong chin. He looked tall, and his skin was tanned, telling of many days spent outside under the sun.

He seemed familiar somehow. Had she seen him somewhere before?

Suddenly, as if he had heard her thoughts, or sensed that she had been studying him, he turned his head and looked straight at her.

His directness startled Marguerite, causing her to almost gasp, but she held his gaze. How had he even spotted her? His eyes were dark, but in the sunlight that fell through the coloured church windows they looked green.

A slow smile appeared on his face. After a moment of hesitation, she returned it. Strangely, her heart started beating faster.

“Marguerite!” Matron’s voice was a low but sharp hiss. The woman’s hard eyes bore into her. Marguerite flinched, and lowered her gaze. It was hard to hide her smile though.

She could almost hear Matron furiously grinding her teeth. The patience she had for Marguerite, or in fact, for any of the girls, was wearing thin these days. Best to play along for a moment and to keep her face expressionless.

So Marguerite studied her hands, trying to calm her heartbeat. Recently, her fingers had started to stretch, like the rest of her body that was about to change. “Seamstresses hands”, Matron had called them. Indeed, cloth seemed to obey Marguerite, and she was the most accomplished with the needle at school.

“A girl with a needle in her sleeve will never starve”, Matron had said. The words had tasted sour in Marguerite’s mouth.

Was that what her future was to be? To be a seamstress, hemming for the rest of her life until she was blind?

Carefully, she raised her gaze again, to take another look at the handsome young Lord in the gallery above, only to find his green eyes still fixed on her. They seemed to be dancing with laughter.

Embarrassed, Marguerite looked down again. What was so amusing to him? Had he noticed Matron scolding her?  
She looked up again, more discreetly through her lashes this time. His smile was still there, but his expression had softened.

She felt her cheeks reddening, and suddenly a surge of heat. What was he laughing at, anyways? And why would that swaddled princess up there be allowed to sit next to him, while she was down her with her knees almost bleeding?

She decided to ignore him, and fixed her attention on Father Brennan, or rather, the window above the priests head. What lay out there, beyond the green hills and forests of Wiltshire?

The world had to be a vast place, where a girl with a bit of wit could make something of herself.

That was the other thing that distinguished her from the other girls at Saint Mary’s. Curiosity and ambition were like two stones in her shoe.  
She dug her fingernails into her palm. One day, as soon as she could, she would leave this place behind. There had to be more to life than this.

One day, she would know what it felt like to wear silk and to be treated like a queen.

She could still feel his eyes on her.


	2. December 1906

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who read the first chapter of Deadly Nightshade. I know it's been over a year since I first posted the story, but inspiration only returned now.
> 
> Chapter 2 note: This is based on the season 2 episode Survivors. Femslash is implied

Chapter 2

Paris, December 1906

Marguerite tried to stay away from the small attic window as much as possible, even though no one would ever spot her behind the darkened glass. She watched as her breath turned into icy white clouds and disappeared into the room.

The blanket she had wrapped around herself did little to keep the chill out, so she placed a few pieces of wood on the dying embers in the fireplace. The rain had been beating on the roof for the past hour.

It had been a full week since she had last seen Adrienne. Marguerite had not left the flat above the nightclub since her friend had left, only to ask for news. Every hour that passed seemed to confirm her fears. She felt as if she had swallowed a knife.

Adrienne had been too reckless, too eager to believe promises of wealth and security. Too confident in her own abilities to get whatever it was she wanted.

Marguerite knew where the jewelry was hidden, of course she knew. She also knew that the man who had paid Adrienne with the gems had never received his end of the bargain. Now, her friend was missing, and Marguerite was trapped up here in their old hideout, unable to make any moves. 

Adrienne had to come back, she simply had to.

“Nine lives, just like a cat!” the French woman had always said of herself, every time she managed to evade the police, the law, business deals, her lovers and once or twice, even death.

How often had Adrienne stumbled through the door in the middle of the night, after days away, smelling of wine and gin, and slurring “You missed a bit of an adventure, my dear!” 

A life without Adrienne was simply unimaginable for Marguerite. Had her friend not always been her savior? Had she not taken her under her wing when she had no one, alone on the streets of Paris? 

Marguerite would never forget the night the other girl had led her up the stairs to this flat two years ago. For the first time in months, she had felt safe.

She had never really found out why Adrienne had decided to help her, of all people, and was too frightened to ask.

Adrienne had taught her all there was to know about the world, what was worth having and what was not. How to pick your friends and your foes. What it was that men wanted, and how to give it to them if it suited you. She had even helped Marguerite get a job at the nightclub downstairs, telling the owner Philippe that the English knew about drink.

With her, Marguerite first felt that feeling of friendship, and the warmth of knowing that she was not alone in this world.

Adrienne was the daughter of a jeweler family, originally from Antwerp, and she had explained to Marguerite that there was no harder currency than diamonds and gold in the world. They never lost their value, not even in times of war. If you wanted any kind of security at all, gems were the way to get it, along with a husband who could provide you with anything else you needed.

Adrienne knew a good deal about the jeweler business, as her father had instructed her. She passed all her knowledge on to Marguerite, on cold nights such as these. They had often peered through the windows of the shops where the rich liked to spend their money, and Adrienne would point out the magnificent artisanship.

Marguerite rubbed her hands together to keep warm. She thought about the tea salons and balls full of marriageable gentlemen she had visited together with her friend. Their silken dresses had been borrowed - or so Adrienne had claimed. It took very little to be thought of as a lady or a woman of means, as it turned out. One only had to play the part and keep up the right posture.

So how could someone like Adrienne, who knew about the world and what people were like, have been so stupid? To make such a deal, and then think she could get away without owning up to her part?

Marguerite’s stomach felt tight as a sheet.

She vividly remembered the day, just a few weeks ago, when her friend had woken her in the middle of the night, heat and excitement radiating off her.

“Wake up, darling, I have the most wonderful thing to show you!” she had whispered into Marguerite’s ear, pulling on her sheets. 

“Oh what is it now? I was working late. Louis was asking for you...”

“Forget that fool, and sleep you can have later. First, I need you to look at this!”

Out of her pocket, Adrienne produced a collier, shaped like the crescent moon. It glittered in the dark.

“Have you ever seen anything this exquisite?” her voice was barely a whisper. “I have never seen gems like this before. My father never showed me anything of this quality. These are from South America…”

“Where did you get that from?” Marguerite asked, slightly alarmed, but her cheeks warmed with excitement. She knew what kind of trouble Adrienne could get herself into, but this was too intriguing.

“Oh, never mind that, get up, you’ll have to try it on!” she made Marguerite get out of bed. “Stand in front of the mirror!”

There was only one mirror in the flat, an oval glass that produced a slightly blurred reflection. Marguerite’s skin tingled in the cool night air. Adrienne slid the piece of jewellery around her neck, and a delightful shiver cursed through her body. 

Adrienne smiled at that reaction. “See?” was all she said, and pushed the other girl’s glossy dark curls out of the way. They both looked at each other’s mirror image and smiled.

Marguerite touched the collier, mesmerized by the change it made. It seemed to vibrate under her touch.

“Gems have a power”, the French woman said and slid her arm around Marguerite’s waist.

“I know”, she replied, leaning into her friend. “I know…”

“These will give us a future. That is their power. Away from this place. We’ll be sipping champagne in the Fat Man’s Bar every night…”

“That pit?” Marguerite replied, raising her eyebrows mockingly. Adrienne laughed.

“We’ll be queens, and you’ll look like this every day!” she said, and pressed a hot kiss to the other girl’s lips.

“There is more!” she pulled her back to the bed and pulled a black satchel out of her coat. She opened it and more gems tumbled onto the blanket. Individual stones, rings, a bracelet, earrings and a silver hair comb encrusted with emeralds.

“Where did you get all this? And what did you have to do for it?” Unease starting to rise in Marguerite’s chest again. The collier felt heavy around her neck.

“Never you mind. I know what I am doing. I promised life would get better someday, didn’t I?” 

The irritation was audible in Adrienne’s voice, and Marguerite cast her eyes down. She did not want her friend to turn scornful.

“You did”, she conceded, and held one of the earrings up to Adrienne’s ear, trying out what they would look like on her. This seemed to improve her mood.

“And I always keep my promises. The ones I make to you, anyways!” she laughed, a bit too loudly.

“I just need you to be careful”, Marguerite replied as she helped to put the jewelry back into the satchel.

“Don’t worry about me, sweet girl”, Adrienne replied. “You’ll thank me one day.”

They had not gone back to sleep that night, and had spent it talking about the future and life as it was. To this day, Marguerite could smell the lavender scent of Adrienne’s hair sprawling on the pillow next to her.

***

And now, she was alone.

How long would she have to wait? When would they come for her? It was only a matter of time. What could she do?

When it had been obvious that Adrienne was unwilling to do what that man had requested from her, Marguerite had suggested giving the gems back, but this had made Adrienne fly into a rage.

“You will do no such thing, they belong to us!”

Marguerite had said nothing after that.

Adrienne would come back. She always did.

Marguerite repeated that thought like a mantra in her head, but it did not stop the tears from falling. How was she to live in a world without a friend? Where would she go?

Marguerite waited.


End file.
